I've been having this nightmare. I'm taking my NEWTs--not surprising, thus far, I bet you're thinking; it'd be a rare seventh-year who didn't have nightmares about them--but, when I unroll the scroll that Professor Dumbledore gives me, it only has one question on it: _Who are you? Please use the entire scroll._

I dip my quill into my ink and begin to write. _My name is Percy Weasley. I'm Head Boy at Hogwarts. I'm in Gryffindor. I have five brothers and one sister. I want to become Minister of Magic before I'm fifty._ There, that about covers it.

I set my quill down and look at the scroll. Only six and a half feet left. Then I wake up drenched in cold sweat.

I have other nightmares, too. At least... They don't seem like nightmares when I'm asleep. Quite the opposite, in fact. They're like waking up from a nightmare, in fact; there's this overwhelming feeling of relief, almost peace. Someone--I can't tell who it is; the voice sounds familiar, but out-of-place somehow--tells me that it's all right, that I can just relax and let someone else take charge for a while, and offers me....

That's when I wake up and realize what I've done. How dangerous it would be to give into the temptation the dreams offer, to throw away everything I've ever done, or wanted, or been, for the promise of....

No. I won't think about it. I have spent the past five years, at least, not thinking about it, and I won't let some silly dream derail all my plans. It's a dream. That's it.

I push back the curtains around my bed and shrug into my dressing gown. Four-thirty. That's later than I've been able to sleep in weeks. Our dormitory is quiet-well, as quiet as it ever gets. Gilreath is still asleep, which means that the walls are shaking from his snoring. I've been listening to that snoring for seven years, and I'll be glad when June comes and it ceases to be my problem and starts being Melody Forbes'. Thompson said he's planning on giving her earplugs as a wedding present.

At this hour, there's no competition for the window seat. I sit down, propping my chin on my knees, and watch fat, lazy snowflakes spiraling downward as I try to regain my composure. _You're Head Boy, Weasley. You have responsibilities. You have to set a good example for the other students, and you can't go around....

"But I want--" I hear myself whisper.

_What you *want* doesn't matter._

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Percy said, scowling at his younger brothers.

"Don't be such an ass, Percy," Fred began, but Percy interrupted him.

"Ten points, _each_. And really, I'm appalled at the two of you. You've got your OWLs coming up; you should be studying instead of playing such childish pranks. And you know Professor McGonagall said that the next time you set off any fireworks she was sending an owl to Mum. That's just what she needs right now, to have to worry about you two getting expelled."

"What do you care?" George asked. "We get expelled, we stop embarrassing you in front of the other prefects. You win."

For a moment, he was tempted to agree, to hound the twins relentlessly, reporting every infraction--and there were hundreds--to Professor McGonagall until she had no other choice but to send them home in disgrace. For one brief second, he had a blissful vision of life without Filibuster's Fireworks going off in the common room, without his Head Boy badge mysteriously disappearing and just as mysteriously resurfacing with the words altered, without any unauthorized excursions into the Forbidden Forest. Then he sighed. "Because Mum asked me to keep you out of trouble."

"When we were _four_," said George.

"And we didn't like it any better then," added Fred.

"It wasn't any easier, either." God, no, it had been worse. At least now, Fred and George had some vague idea of what sort of stunts would actually get them killed, and avoided them most of the time.

He gathered up the confiscated fireworks, stowing them in the pockets of his robes. As he started down the hall, he heard Fred--or was it George?--mutter, "Oh, yeah, like it's a picnic being related to Pompous Percy."

"Look after your brothers, Percy."

I must have heard that sentence fifteen times a day when I was a kid. Bill and Charlie were off at school, and Mum had her hands full with Ron and Ginny, which left me to keep Fred and George from blowing the house up, or setting fire to the garden, or stealing Dad's wand and turning half of Ottery St. Catchpole into frogs. Mum was there for the big stuff, but when she was changing diapers or feeding babies or trying to get my sister, who didn't believe in sleep, to take a nap, the twins would seize the opportunity for escape, and it was Big Brother Percy's job to fish them out of trouble.

I don't expect them to appreciate it. But sometimes, I get tired of being the one reminding them that rules were meant to be followed. The responsible one.

_Oh, yeah, Mr. Responsible. That was a *highly* responsible dream you had, the one about Oliver Wood and the tub in the prefects' bathroom._

I can't help what I dream about. Besides, we learned in Divination last year that dreams have to be interpreted; if you dream about oatmeal, it means there's money coming to you, not what you hope will be served for breakfast. So dreaming about Oliver Wood in the bath probably means that...well, it wasn't in the book, but it doesn't mean that you're interested in washing his back, that's for certain. It doesn't mean that you have to lie awake all night, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that you do not, have never, would not ever consider doing any of the things that you dream about. Because I wouldn't. I don't want to. I have a girlfriend, for heaven's sake. So the dream can't possibly mean that I want to do any of...of _that_...with Wood.

For one thing, I don't think Wood pays any attention to anything that isn't a Quaffle. For another, there is _nothing_ I want to do that involves strong arms and flat hard planes of chest muscle and ...oh God, I can't even think about the rest.

As for what the dream does mean--I don't have time to figure that out right now. I have exams to study for, and four siblings to look after. I have responsibilities to the school. I have a job interview with the Ministry over Easter holidays. I have to figure out, some time before Thursday at ten o'clock, how to turn an inkwell into a flying squirrel, and no one else seems to understand what Professor McGonagall was talking about last week in class either.

I don't have time to think about the dreams. I certainly don't have time to pay them any attention. Listening to them would mean giving up the plan: prefect, head boy, job at the Ministry, wife and family, steady promotions, Minister of Magic. Stunning in its simplicity, and what I've been working toward ever since I can remember.

So I don't have time to stop to think about any stupid (terrifying), meaningless (beautiful) dreams. I can't slow down. You don't get anywhere if you slow down.

I just wish I wasn't so damned tired.